Inside
by FrenchCuffed
Summary: After Watari's death, Lawliet is isolated and plagued by increasing anxiety. So, he's cloistered himself in his very elegant-very secure- flat. But he doesn't want to be trapped by a pitiful inability to solve a problem, of course. That wouldn't do. Not for him. He's going to fix himself through sheer force of will. And the alluring power of haute couture. COMPLETELY AU.
1. Chapter 1

Thursday, May 4

An unreasonable amount of time had lapsed since I went outside.

Not that inside was a bad place to be—I lived in an elegant and upscale flat in the tallest residential building in the city (it also happened to have the best security, which seemed, at the time, to be the most effective sales tactic ever to be used against me—how do you say no to the promise that whatever you are purchasing will refrain from contributing unduly to your untimely death?). It took me a moment to remember what city that was—Austin, Texas, in the lower to central part of America. I'd chosen it because I was doing a large amount of work in America at the time, wanted to be somewhere warm, and lastly because it was a fairly convenient half-way point for travel to both coasts. The private aviation terminal I kept my planes at was quiet, too, yet another bonus. My driver could pull me right to the door of the plane on the tarmac, preventing me from having to make uncomfortable eye contact with any of the hawkish females who ran the terminal.

But that did not really apply anymore, as I had not ventured outside of my flat in just a few days over four months. My planes, and other homes around the world, sat collecting dust. My collections of haute couture, custom made clothing, and shoes—the mere fact that I owned these things intentionally would have astonished my nearly lifelong companion, Watari, had he still been alive—sat, in their respective closets, unworn. I had learned, upon being given incredible sums of money for solving the problems of various governments, that beautiful clothing can, firstly, be made to feel like a second skin, and, secondly, be utilized as a tool to make said governments view you both as a more valuable asset and as a Real Life Human Being. I still did not understand why people so closely linked competency and beauty, but it did give me the excuse to have some truly spectacular garments made.

Also, since Watari wasn't alive anymore, I had absolutely no idea where to find the clothing that I'd spent most of my life wearing. He'd neglected to leave the information of the manufacturer of my jeans and formless white shirts lying about anywhere, just as he'd neglected to leave any extra sets. Oh well. I didn't really mind, not anymore.

I had things made exclusively in black and white, at first, but every now and again, when I was feeling frivolous, I'd ask the couturiers to do something in slate grey. There was one disturbingly elegant all-season light coat—black, ultralight silk/cashmere blend— which the couturiers at Valentino had, against my specific request, lined in silk the color of dried blood. Unfortunately, that became my favorite coat. I still resented them for forcing me to enjoy a color. Colors were… obtrusive, even on the inside of coats and jackets.

My therapist, Wedy, thought that colors frightened me because of my traumatic childhood, pre-Time at the Orphanage. I don't know about you, but based on my rather extensive research, extreme childhood stress generally manifests symptoms such as a heightened physical stress response, difficulty connecting with others, disordered sleeping patterns, and heightened patterns of self-harm, not "a strange and semi-pathological preoccupation with the avoidance of color", as Wedy wrote on one of the many pages of notes I whisked out of her work computer.

If she were listening to me right now, she'd give me a rather overblown sigh. Not only would it be a completely justified sigh, as I was being a sarcastic and avoidant prick, playing with convenient and humorously flawed argument structures—obviously, avoidance of any attention-grabbing attributes was well within the canon of "extreme childhood stress"—but It'd make the telephone crackle, too, in a way I found to be somewhat comforting, which might be why I subjected her to my "humor" at all. I found many things about her comforting. In addition to the crackling sound the phone made when she sighed, her IQ was in the higher reaches of recorded territory, like mine. It meant our discussion did not necessitate me tearing myself open for her view. She could make do with the information I was comfortable, or able, to provide.

We always did our sessions over the phone, rather than in person, considering that she was based out of London. But we hadn't spoken in at least two months. I'd stopped taking her bi-weekly phone calls, although she still called, on time, every Monday and Thursday at 3:19.

In our "initial phone consultation", she had asked me if I had a time preference for our phone sessions. I was, as I generally am in all instances of socialization, deeply uncomfortable, so my brain decided to allow my mouth to produce the sounds that form "3:19". All she said was, "AM or PM, your time?" It was at that point that I accepted that she would be my therapist. I really, truly, did not want to have to go through the evil and humiliating slog that was an "initial phone consultation" ever again.

Over the course of three and a half years or so, she got to know certain parts of me rather well. Not my face, or my full name, of course, but the parts of me that screamed and shrieked with absolute terror when a person walked too closely on the street, the parts of me that feared sleep because of what my ever-humming subconscious might choose to bring to the fore, the parts of me that only work, or truly beautiful objects, might temporarily soothe.

It was nice, to have someone know those parts of me, and not merely because they had subjected me to a battery of tests as part of my entry into their Very Special Orphanage.

I'd loved Watari, as much as I'd ever loved a human being, which is probably less than expected, but that certainly didn't mean I had some difficulty with his methods. Or with the way he'd responded to me verbalizing the smallest of symptoms, or, even more, with the information his responses to my symptoms furnished me with. One week, in Hong Kong, during a very interesting and very lucrative assignment, I'd mentioned getting cluster headaches and back pain every afternoon between 2:15 and 4:30. He frowned slightly, allowing that heavy mustache to consume even more of his mouth, and said, I shit you not, "well, I suppose that could mean the new Modafinil and supplement cocktail I've introduced at high tea are not quite agreeing with you… I'll check your stool sample from yesterday and adjust accordingly."

This left me to wonder when and how, exactly, Watari was collecting my stool.

After his death, things did change somewhat. Living alone proved to be nearly impossible in a house, as I worried about forced entry, rape, stalkers, people standing silently over my sleeping body, and a variety of other issues. Hence the move into the vertically integrated condo system. My body had a slightly easier time relinquishing control and consciousness when it was impossible to get to my floor, let alone my door, without going through multiple forms of security checks. The armed guards, arranged by Watari, prior to his death (that strange old man certainly did know how to prepare for all eventualities, excepting the clothing situation and a few others, something that both impressed me and caused me to emote) who were always flanking my door also helped. They even checked my delivered groceries for poison, bombs, and electronic listening devices. Very sweet of them, I thought. They did not, however, check my stool, or assist me in dealing with the world. This was both good and bad, I felt. Good, because that meant I could behave like a child, and insist on solving the puzzles my line of work afforded me from my very comfortable custom Poltrona Frau sectional in my living room. Bad, because there was absolutely no one to assist me in leaving my home, and I was now consumed by relentless and incomprehensible terror any time I attempted to do so.

Life is a mixed bag, I supposed.

I also supposed I should get an assistant, but I would want to do my interviews in person, of course, to get a handle on every detail of their person, in order to determine who was most optimally compatible with the duties they would need to fulfill.

The stool thing was not something I would want on the list of duties, any existing deities bless Watari's departed soul.

But how to get myself out of the house to interview the people meant to assist me in getting out of the house? It was certainly a catch-22. Small in scale, compared to the other problems I'd solved, but it loomed more heavily, and actually… scared me. The mere fact that any solvable predicament should trigger an emotional response both humiliated and concerned me. Things were worse than I'd previously thought. I needed to move on this, and quickly. I pulled out my phone.

It was 3:02 in the afternoon. Wedy would call soon.

I stilled for a moment, trying to decide how I would tackle the call, if I would tackle it at all, and then how I would go about handling the bigger issue of getting people to interview, and how I would get out of the house to interview said people.

A quick database search provided the details of a high-end staffing agency who we'd used previously—the "we" having been Watari and I. Blast that old man. Had he not died, I would not have had to do any of this, nor would I have gotten… stuck, so to speak, in my home. Alone.

It was 3:05 when I called the agency, providing them quickly with a list of expected qualifications and credentials, along with a time and place to meet me— tomorrow, at a coffee shop merely a block from my building. Ambitious of me to leave so quickly after being in here for so long, certainly, but with the sheer amount of brain power available to me, if I were unable to force myself to leave, I would be compelled to believe, statistically, that there was a likelihood that I might be slipping into early onset Alzheimer's at 23. The agent on the phone told me that there were extremely few people who met the qualifications I'd specified, but that he'd send them the following day. I then told him the amount of pay they should expect (an "ungodly amount of money" I believe was the exact turn of phrase I'd used), to which he replied "Well, ah, in that case, they will all be there, certainly, sir… I must ask, is there any flexibility on the IQ mandate, because otherwise I'm—". I cut off that line of questioning by hanging up.

My hands were shaking violently at that point. Almost vibrating, really. It was rather funny, I thought, that I'd devolved to such a pitiful point. A phone call, lasting only four and a half minutes—it was 3:09—could cause me such distress that I'd be practically incapacitated.

I went and fetched a large klonopin from my beautiful marble topped 1903 French console, and then a flavored sparkling water to drink it with.

I had no one to spite or entertain now, by refusing to drink water or consume healthy foods, and had to watch after my own health, but I still could not bring myself to put… nasty, horrifyingly disgusting, PLAIN water in my mouth at any time. Ever. I opened the sparkling beverage and took my klonopin.

3:11.

I sat back down on my couch, and petted it. The stitching was so lovely, and timeless, and delicate, while somehow being built to sustain years and years of use. There were Poltrona Frau couches from the earliest years of their production that were still in loving use by the descendants of those who first purchased them, a fact that warmed my heart to an unreasonable degree, considering that I never intended to have descendants, or really any meaningful human connection. They were frightening and unreasonable, other people, and being able to predict and understand their behavior better than any being in history did not change that fact. People can wound you. I just really cherished beautiful and well-made objects, and their reliability.

3:18.

As I admired my couch in my now rather relaxed state, I wondered if I would pick up the phone, when it rang. Or if this would be the week she chose to not call anymore. I sipped my water, and looked at the Murakami I had hanging over my French console. I loved the clash of old and new in their pairing. One vibrant, one muted (I was not opposed to small points of color in my home, as long as they were something special—I had even had Poltrona Frau make my bedframe in a leather the exact same color as the lining of that coat, to my eternal shame) they seemed to force each other to vibrate. Or perhaps that was the klonopin.

Actually, it was my phone. It was 3:19.

On the fifth rang, I picked up.

"Hello, Lawliet," Wedy said in the voice that I knew was associated with the raising of an eyebrow, somehow. "I was sort of hoping you'd continue your trend of not answering, as I scheduled a massage for 3:45."

I knew she had done no such thing, as I was looking at a copy of her calendar, stolen from her server, but responded "Well, I suppose I could hang up, and we could resume at some other point in the future. I loathe to get in the way of good massage. It's important to keep the body balanced, after all."

There was an extended pause.

"Lawliet, if you do not stop hacking my shit, I will come find you and feed you your intestines. That is a terribly rude thing to do, and it takes the fun out of all my jokes."

I smiled ever so slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi. Not super "in" to writing long, protracted author's notes, but I will tell you a few things: firstly, I don't own these characters, as you might have suspected. I just thought it might be an interesting exercise to play with them this way—I suppose we'll see if you all agree as this goes on. Secondly, I have no set updating schedule. That'll depend entirely on when I feel inspired to write in this narrative. I will note, however, that reviews are helpful; they tend to draw me back to the site, which in turn causes me to write more. Thirdly… well, I don't really have anything to put under thirdly. So I'll just say that I hope you enjoy.

Actually, wait—I do have something to put under thirdly, but I don't really want to use my backspace button at this point (I'm lazy), so I'll tell you that I like to shift the perspective I use—expect me to move back and forth between first and third and such between chapters on occasion.

Early Friday, March 5th

It was 3:09 AM, and L Lawliet was standing in his bathroom (a bathroom that featured green marble floors, a green marble shower, a white marble tub, white marble walls, glorious custom lighting fixtures and matching hardware, and two sinks, between which he alternated his use, as, obviously, no one else was in his home to use them). He was standing in his bathroom because, approximately thirty minutes earlier, he had realized sleep was not going to come, even with pharmaceutical grade assistance. Thus he decided that getting ready was the way to go. People did get ready in the mornings, after all. Many people found that it primed them for the day, made them feel more ready to "tackle it with enthusiasm".

He was literally unable to think the words "tackle it with enthusiasm" outside of quotes. He tried to do that approximately twelve more times, just to further test that hypothesis, to no avail.

At 2:57, he'd stepped out of what he felt was a reasonably short shower, and wrapped himself in an obscenely plush "bath sheet", or a towel that was essentially a blanket made for quick yet comfortable drying. It was almost too comfortable, even after the time he'd spent working on "being okay with feeling positive physical sensations", as Wedy put it. He'd sighed, looked in the mirror, and commenced with his daily two minutes of critical self-evaluation. This was not something Wedy had recommended, but rather was something he did to remind himself of the state of his physical being. As per usual, he had mixed feelings. The primary component of the mixture was disgust, although it had been dulled by time and critical awareness. His limbs were decidedly unmanly— long, smooth, essentially hairless, and slim. His torso was similarly blighted, in his opinion. Very thin. Good for clothes, not good for nudity. His skin was too pale, and responded to heat by turning ballet slipper pink. Legs, also slim. The only features he possessed which he had learned not to loathe were his nose, his eyes, and his hands.

He frowned at himself in the mirror, then moved into his closet.

His closet, at least, was truly, absolutely glorious. A cavernous space, filled with garments made to cradle his body and convince those he encountered that he was a Real Life Regular Human Being, thus preventing a cacophony of strange looks or whispers. They would look—Wedy had helped him realize that they would probably always look, because that is what people tend to do—but they wouldn't mock him, at least.

Plus, the nice clothes made him feel… pretty. A decidedly unmasculine feeling, but one that was deeply positive in multiple ways. He felt more whole, somehow, when dressed properly, than he thought he ever had when he'd been wearing the same clothes every day.

He had seen a one point six percent decline in his work productivity since allowing himself assorted pleasures, such as the clothing and obscenely beautiful surroundings. He felt, firmly, that it was worth it.

Plus, he would need to hemorrhage over sixty percent of his efficiency before anyone would be even close to matching his speed. Not to mention the fact that no one ever could match his pure ability. It turns out living in and attending a Genius Orphanage/Training School For Uncannily Clever Detectives made one rather good at problem solving.

He plucked a white shirt from a hanger. It was a Brunello Cucinelli casual button up, made of silken linen, with long sleeves (meant to be rolled to three quarters, preferably with the cuffs rolled over the edge of a sweater sleeve). He picked up a sweater (black) to match. L thought it was humorous that he owned exactly one-hundred and forty-three sweaters, while only five of them were tinted anything other than black or white. He'd never worn any of the colored ones, either. There was one red Comme Des Garçons sweater that he loved, secretly and desperately, for its remarkable and strange texture. He wondered if he'd ever actually wear it outside.

He put on the shirt and sweater, looked at them in the mirror (verdict: acceptable), then went back in to find some pants. Some Etro denim in a deep black wash were located, and slid into. Quite tight, but his Etro person had insisted that they were a mandatory add on to his wardrobe. He located a pair of Bottega Veneta driving slippers (black, intecrezziato leather) and a pair of glasses to hide his undereye bags (to the extent they could be hidden), and emerged, complete, from the closet. He sat his glasses on the sink, put on his shoes, then looked in the mirror.

It was 3:09 AM.

He slapped on a coating of lovely Korean moisturizer, then put the glasses on. It wasn't terrible—the sweater and shirt looked much more appropriate with pants concealing his dick and absurdly thin legs, and the pants themselves looked rather nice, he thought. Maybe the sales associate had been right. He'd forgotten underwear, though he didn't think he felt like taking his pants off to put them on. "No," he said softly, into the mirror. "I think going outside is probably enough for today. I will not force underwear onto your person as well."

He stopped short of thanking himself for that courtesy in the mirror, and distracted himself from how horrifying it was that he'd done that by opening the drawer containing his watch safe, dexterously punching in the 30 digit code, and withdrawing a lovely vintage platinum Vacheron Constantin.

Walking back through his bedroom into the living space of his flat, L was extremely glad that he had collected and put on his shoes. He realized that had he found any reason to go back into his bathroom and closet, he probably would have wound up shutting himself in there for the remainder of the day, successfully avoiding having to reenter the world.

It wasn't happening. He would not fail.

But it was only 3:13, and he had to prevent himself from losing his nerve. It would have been best if he'd found an open breakfast restaurant and immediately went there, and just stayed… outside… until the time of the appointment with his interviewees. But there was nothing open until five.

He would have to… waste time. Wantonly, and without too much remorse, as too much remorse could overwhelm him and prevent him from leaving.

Work was out. Bad idea—if he became engrossed, he wouldn't leave. Masturbation was a no-go, as he would have to remove his pants. Television news seemed to be the best option, for at least an hour. He flipped Aljazeera on, and allowed himself to become engrossed by the narratives of geopolitical tension.

An hour passed.

He booted up a video game console, and attempted to learn the combat mechanics of a new game.

Another hour passed.

The starbucks at the W a block away opened at 5:30. Fifteen more minutes.

He paced the length of his living space at varying speeds and with multiple walking styles.

Three minutes. He supposed he could walk over there, now. He retrieved his wallet and keys from where they'd lain dormant for a long time. Too long. Then he walked into the entryway, and simply opened the door.

Two very, very large men in black suits jumped on either side of the door.

"Sir—are you okay? Is everything alright? Do you require medical assistance?" the one on the left inquired. The one on the right just stared, looking confused, stupid, and a little bit frightened.

"No… I'm just… going outside for the day. Coffee…" L managed, looking uncomfortable and hesitant. He pointed to his shoes. The security personnel followed his finger to look at his shoes.

"See? Shoes." L could have bludgeoned himself to death with one of their concrete filled heads, he was so embarrassed. Why were words so difficult when he had to emit them via his mouth, rather than writing them down? Surprisingly to him, they seemed to accept the shoes as clear evidence of his intent to emerge from his self-imposed isolation.

"Ah! I didn't think about that. Of course you're going outside on purpose, you've got shoes on!" the one on the right exclaimed, rather happy to have a grasp on anything remotely like an idea. He was Scottish, and appeared to have had part of his right ear chewed off. The one on the left nodded, vigorously, looking serious and contemplative, meaning that he looked like he was developing a rather serious headache.

Left said, after a few moments, "That'll mean one of us'll have to come with you, sir. Shouldn't like to leave you unprotected, after all."

"…Right." L hadn't really thought about that. He didn't love the idea of having one of them hovering over his shoulder, attempting to make strained small talk, but he supposed it'd be okay. Besides, a protracted discussion about his lack of a need in the hovering personal security department might make him go back inside.

"I'm gonna go!" Right exclaimed (again. He seemed to do an awful lot of exclaiming for a man who was easily six feet six inches). Before L could decide how he felt about that, Left nodded, and Right was happily shuffling L to the elevator bank.

"I'm glad you're heading out to get some fresh air. I know you're special and all, but even smart people need to see the sun. And other people, probably. Me and Franklin weren't sure how long it'd take you to come out."

L's eyebrow twitched at the string of strange comments, but he was glad to have garnered at least one name. Time to get the other, he supposed.

"What is your name?"

Right paused for a moment, then said "My name is Joseph, but you can call me Jo, or Joey if you'd prefer." He giggled quietly for a moment. "It took me a second to remember."

He realized Watari would have thought that this individual's… lack of mental acuity… was remarkably entertaining just as the elevator dinged to announce their arrival on the first floor.

They walked through the lobby, past its attendants, and out onto the street. It felt surprisingly normal to L to walk outside. The streets were nearly empty, and the few people he did see didn't really alarm him in any unusual fashion, meaning they produced exactly the same amount of anxiety that they had before. It was a bit misty, too, which pleasantly reminded him of his childhood home.

They arrived at the Starbucks fairly quickly. He placed his order (cold brew coffee, light ice, inordinate amounts of liquid sugar dumped in, and a cheese Danish) and also got the large man walking behind him, like a mobile wall of stone, a latte. Jo seemed excited about the latte, like he had about essentially everything else.

They got their order, and as they slid into the most defensible table in the shop, L's left eye emitted a single tear of relief. He had made it outside. He wiped it away quickly and dispassionately without any change of expression, and then began to suck down the sugary concoction he'd ordered.

The only thing to do after that was wait.


End file.
